A Scar Like Lightning
by Wizard of night
Summary: How little Albus Severus Potter is sure he looks nothing like his father. But how he wants to. How he will. How he must.


A Scar Like Lightning

He was seven. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom in the basement, scrutinizing what he saw there. Picking out the differences. Picking out the differences and making them seem larger, until they dominated his features.

His father had a scar. A scar like lightning. That scar had always enthralled him. An inch and a half tall. A little less than an inch wide. Somehow looking red, bloody, open and scabbing, after all these years. He'd had that cut on his forehead since he was a baby, but it looked a week old, at best. How? Magic? The boy didn't know, but he knew there were stories behind that scar. Stories that made his father something- someone. Someone important. Even though they were stories the boy would never understand. He envied his father. He envied his lightning bolt scar.

His father was taller. His shoulders were broader. His face was thinner. His father was just older. He would always be older. He would always be taller. He would always be smarter, better, able to stay up later. It was his job- because he was the Dad. But his son would always be younger. Shorter. More ignorant, inferior, doomed to go to bed at eight forty-five. Always. Forever. Because he didn't have a scar like lightning.

His father wore glasses. He didn't. He wanted glasses like his father's. He would look older, in glasses. He would be more mature. He would be told things, then. He would be told how to be powerful, and famous, like his father. He could see things he couldn't now- secrets. Secrets that would make him better. Secrets that would make him like his father. They were important, those secrets. But they were out of his reach. Always. Forever. Because he didn't have those glasses. He didn't have that scar. That scar like lightning.

His father's face was clear. Except for the lightning bolt scar. But his son had freckles. Four on his left cheek, one on his right- by his ear. It distanced him from his father. It made him different. It made him more like a Weasley. Even though he could never be a Weasley, because they all had lots of freckles. Tons of freckles. Millions of freckles. He'd tried to count Rose's freckles once, but he had to stop after one hundred and twelve, because he couldn't remember which numbers came after that. It was one of the _teen_ ones, but those confused him. He'd never been able to get them in the right order. But Rose and all her family had lots and lots of freckles. He'd decided freckles must make you inferior. So he was better than them. Better than them by far, but never as good as his father. His father had no freckles at all. Just a scar. A scar like lightning.

People said he looked just like his father? How could they say that? He didn't look anything like him. His hair was too neat- even when he messed it up. His father's hair was always messy. Sure, his son's eyes were green, but they didn't have any glasses. They needed glasses to really be green. They were the wrong shape. Wider than his father's. His father was taller. His father was older. His teeth were straighter. His jaw was squarer. He had wrinkles. He had no freckles. He had a scar.

How his son wanted that scar. That scar like lightning. He wanted to be as good as his father. He wanted to know what he knew. He wanted people to know he knew what he knew. And he wanted to know they knew he knew what he knew. He wanted to be famous. Just like his father. But he needed that knowledge. He needed those secrets. He needed that scar. That scar like lightning.

He knew how to get a scar. A scar like lightning. James had a scar. James got a scar on his hand cutting up apples with a kitchen knife. So he could get a knife. He could get a scar.

He left the bathroom. He wandered through the basement. Up the stairs. He passed his mother, who was folding laundry. She left the laundry, passed him on the stairs, and shut herself in the bathroom. He heard the lock click. He'd have to make his scar somewhere else.

He padded through the hallway, paneled in pale wood. Through the sitting room, painted white and gold. Through the wooden door that swung open wide at his bidding. Into the kitchen. Across the tile. The pretty green and blue tile. Past the window, where he could see James, and Lily, and his father playing catch with a quaffle. His father. His father's face. His father's forehead. His father's scar. His scar like lightning. How he wanted that scar. But he would have it. Soon, he would have it.

He opened the cutlery drawer. He took a knife. A very sharp knife. A shiny, silver knife for cutting. For cutting scars. Scars like lightning.

In front of him, on the counter, next to the sink, there was a cauldron. A shiny, silver cauldron- one his Mum used for baking things like brownies- not like the pewter one she used for boiling things like soups. He could look into it. He could see his face. He could see his forehead. He could see where the scar should be. Where it wasn't. Where he would make it soon. A scar like lightning.

His reflection was distorted. It curved around the cauldron. But it didn't matter. He was distorted. Distorted, imperfect, until he had that scar. That scar like lightning. The cauldron was just his height to see in- unlike the mirror upstairs, where he could only see the top of his head. For this, he didn't need to be taller. For this, he was just as good as his father. But he didn't have a scar yet. He needed that scar.

With one hand, he pushed the fringe off his forehead. With the other, he held the knife. Slowly, uncurling one hand from its shiny black handle, he traced where the scar should go. It had to be perfect. He took the tip of the knife, and starting at his hairline, he pulled it diagonally across his skin, so that it dragged through his head. It hurt so badly he screamed. He hadn't thought that would happen. It wasn't supposed to hurt. He looked around. No one had heard him cry out. No one was coming. No one cared.

No one cared because he didn't have his scar yet. But they would care when he had a scar. People cared about his father because he had a scar. A scar like lightning.

It must have hurt his father, too, when he got that scar. So the pain was alright. The pain was making him more like his father. So the pain was good.

He looked back at his reflection. There was blood all over his forehead. He smeared his hand across it impatiently; it was blocking his view. He drew the next line. It went in the other direction from the other one. It hurt even worse. But the pain was good. It was giving him a scar. A scar like lightning.

This one bled fast and hard. Blood dripped onto his shirt, ran down the knife arm, puddled on the floor. Mixed with his tears. Tears? Stupid things. He hadn't meant to cry. His father never cried. Probably because he had that scar. That scar like lightning. Well, one more cut and he'd have one too. Then he wouldn't have to cry anymore. He'd be just like his father.

He dug the knife into his head again, this one deeper than all the rest, even. Blood gushed out of his head, running down his face, staining his shirt in rusty red puddles, coating the counter and the floor. He let the knife fall. He didn't need it anymore. Blood caked in his hair and eyebrows, running in little streams down his arm. He lets it. Nothing can bother him anymore. He's invincible. Better, even. He's like his father.

He wants to run and tell him, but the room is moving strangely around his, blurring and darkening, and he can't find the door. He sits down on the floor in the sea of blood, leaning against the counter and waiting for everything to look normal again so he can run and tell Daddy. But it doesn't. But it's alright, because Daddy comes to him.

His father bangs through the door in the kitchen (There it is! The door. But where is it now? Gone again. But he doesn't need it anymore.), calling for him. He can't seem to answer-even though he wants to answer-, but he smiles. His father must know. Must know that he's like him, now, and now he wants to play. He's perfect. He'll know things. People will admire him and adore him and he and his father can rule the world together.

But then his father turns. And he sees his son. And he shouts. And James is right behind him and he runs to get Mum, and his father runs over and his shoes get in the blood, which is like a little ocean around his son, now.

And he feels his father scoop him up and cradles him to his chest, still calling over his shoulder, "Hurry!"

And he feels the heat of the floo as he's felt it so many times as they arrive at Saint Mungo's, and his father falls on his knees on the floor as they fly through the hearth because he's still holding so tight to his son.

And suddenly there are Healers, bustling over, their greenish gowns and caps fluttering around as they grab him away from his father- and he shouts because it's okay, he can be with his father, he's perfect, now- but it only comes out as a squeak and they don't listen.

And he's in the arms of the healers and they run with him too, and he can't quite see around him because there's blood in his eyes, but he knows he's in a corridor and he knows his parents are running after him with James and Lily- they love him now! He's perfect!

But then they're gone. Isn't he perfect? Was he wrong? Did he make a mistake? Or don't they know yet.

He's scared they don't know and he has to tell them- He's perfect!- so he's struggling. And they soothe him and calm him, but they don't know he's not afraid of the cut- It's making him perfect! It's going to be a scar!- he's afraid they're gone and they'll never know he's as good as his father.

So he kicks and he thrashes and he tries to get to him, but they say "Shhh, Shhh, we're going to heal it now, so you won't lose any more blood" and he tries to scream "No!" because they can't heal his scar, after he worked so hard to get it- his scar like lightning.

But then there's a wet cloth on his forehead, and the blood's coming away, then wands hit him, doing their spells, and they hurt so much more than the knife because the knife was making him perfect and then-

Then they all back away. He sits up, because he's glad they're gone, and then he looks. He's still dizzy, because he lost so much blood, but he's sitting on a table in a small room, and they're all staring.

And he sees himself, in the mirror on the wall.

And it's all wrong.

It's not like his father's. It's not a scar like lightning. Well it is, but not a real one.

The lines are wrong. The angles are wrong. It's all wrong.

It doesn't look like a scab, like he got it last week. It looks like he got it a hundred years ago. It's pinkish-white, three raised lines, like a lightning bolt. Like lightning. A scar like lightning. But not like his father's.

And now, whenever Albus looks in the mirror, he knows. He knows he's inferior. He knows he'll never look like his father. It's a constant reminder- he's not good enough. Not because he doesn't have the right scar. Because he doesn't deserve the right scar. His father did everything he did- he defeated Lord Voldemort, he saved people's lives, he saved the world. And then there's Albus-

Albus the Slytherin.

Albus the Seeker.

Albus the Prefect.

Albus the Quidditch Captain.

Albus the Trainee.

Albus the Husband.

Albus the Father.

Albus the Employed.

Albus the Teacher.

Albus the Hogwarts Counselor.

Albus, who helps students at Hogwarts work towards their goals, and understand that they're as good as they need to be.

Albus, who hopes one day, he'll understand that himself.


End file.
